


Flavor of the Month: Something Different

by darthhellokitty



Series: Flavors of the Month [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Good Taste, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthhellokitty/pseuds/darthhellokitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What exactly does Kourt taste like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flavor of the Month: Something Different

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of a series of stories about Blaine Garu, Spare Prince of Eab Nanoorn, and Kourt Crowe, Jedi shapeshifter. They take place in the Star Wars universe, several hundred years before Star Wars: The Phantom Menace.
> 
> The character of Kourt Crowe created by Hiper Bunny; used by permission.

The best place in the world, for me, is where I am right now, naked, in bed, with Kourt. Exploring. Discovering things: the way all that curly hair feels against my belly, the soft skin at the back of his knees, the way he smells when he's hot. He's still new to me, and he's just so... well. Kourt. I could just eat him.

But he won't let me, damn him: Every time I move down that way, he pulls me up.

"You really don't want to do that."

"Why not? You don't like it?" I can't imagine someone not liking that, but you have to allow for a certain amount of strangeness. Especially with Kourt.

"No, no. I like it fine." He was splayed across the bed; now he folds up, knees and elbows out. He's fidgeting, he's fooling with his hair. "It's... the taste."

"I like the taste. I like it a lot." I get his fingers out of his hair, kiss them, suck the tip of his forefinger into my mouth a moment, just to show him... He pulls it out, goes back to fidgeting, green eyes looking askance. Damn him.

"No, you don't understand. It's different."

"Everyone tastes a little bit different. I've tasted enough men to know." And women too, with their sweet bold tender flowers, and they taste good too, but I'm not mentioning that to Kourt; he's funny that way.

"No. It's really different. Look... you know I'm not human."

"Yeah." And he'll endlessly agonize about that, sure, but I don't consider it a problem. Not remotely. "So?"

"Well, I can do a pretty good job looking human. And I can feel human."

"You can feel better." I nuzzle up against him, kiss the side of his neck.

"Mmm. But I can't taste human. I'm what I am."

"I like what you are. And I like tasting different things. Let me?" And I reach down, run a hand down his chest, and gods, that beautiful erection, it's there for me, isn't it? All long and thick, the way I like it.

"No. Maybe later." And then he's got me on my back, his long dark hair hanging down around my face, and he just takes my breath away the way he kisses, and I'm inclined let the whole subject go in favor of enjoying the moment.

 

I don't know what woke me up this morning, so early that the sun's just coming up over the beach, but a cool salt breeze is pushing the curtains around, and Kourt's still asleep. He's flat on his back, hair spread out over the pillow, sheets kicked off, with the sweet blank innocence of the sleeping. Beautiful. If he were awake he'd argue with me about that, but he's asleep and he can't say anything about it so I can call him beautiful all I like. I sit up and watch him a moment. He's deep in sleep, no question about that.

And look at that. He's hard.

That doesn't happen when he's asleep, not very often. It's part of the way he's constructed: he has to move things around, get them into place. He has to think about it to do it, so getting hard in his sleep is sort of like talking in his sleep. I wonder what he's dreaming about.

And then I think, he didn't say absolutely not. He said later. Right now feels like later to me.

I love giving head. It's the simple joy of doing something I know I'm good at. Some people say it's a submissive thing, going down, but for me, it isn't remotely like that. I'm in control, in power, I'm doing it all, and I love that I can reduce a strong man to pure helplessness with just my lips, my tongue, and my throat. I love the sounds they make, the way they move, they way they look. I love giving them that gift, and watching them lose control, and when they come, it's beautiful. And the taste. Men really do all taste a little bit different, and I like every one I've tasted so far. There's a little bit of worship in this, done right, and I am a religious man.

Oh, Kourt, let me.

I run my hand up the inside of his thigh, very lightly. He sighs, stirs a little. Still asleep. Good. I kneel between his legs.

On some level I realize I'm doing sort of a risky thing. I've got a trained killer in my bed, certainly the most dangerous person I'll ever meet, and I'm not exactly sure how he might react if he's startled awake. Best to start slowly, then, and hope that by the time he's actually awake, I've convinced him.

I bend down and very lightly breathe on his cock, just warming it, letting it know I'm there, getting it used to the idea. Oh, it's beautiful, all right: deep rose color, lightly veined, big, with a large head, ample balls. I haven't seen this one before, and I wonder if it's someone he's known, or if he's made it up entirely. He mostly bases them on real cocks, ones he's seen or touched; he goes for human realism nearly all the time. I think of it as art, a sculpting of his own flesh. He's made me mine, a few times, and it's a peculiar thing, seeing it from a new angle, finding out what it feels like to the ones I've fucked. This one definitely isn't mine, though -- longer, and a little thicker. My breath on it is clearly welcome; it moves the tiniest bit toward the source of warmth. Good.

Very, very gentle strokes, now, lightest finger-touches to his strong thighs, the crisp dark curls surrounding that cock. I'm touching so lightly, no harder than breath, and it's a lovely thing to see those hips stir just the slightest bit, urging me to give him just a little more. And I do.

The skin on a cock is the softest skin anywhere on a man's body, like rose petals, like silk, like the idea of silk, but softer, and I run two fingers up from the base of the cock Kourt's made this morning, lightly, just feeling that softness stretched over such hardness. It's what I love about that organ, maybe what's made me blithely pursue and pleasure so many of them: that softness over hardness, that contradiction and combination, that melody of textures. Kourt's rises to my touch, like a cat that wants more petting, and I give it to him: a little firmer stroke, with the palm of my hand.

And then my lips follow where my hand was stroking, softly, and then my tongue, lightly, tasting: the salt of his overnight sweat, a hint of the peppermint soap he likes, and just a little bit of myself, from last night, to remind me of the delicious ache I'm feeling inside this morning from my exquisitely enthusiastic Kourt. There's something else there, too, that underlying taste of the man himself. I can't place what it is, exactly; a subtly stronger version of what he tastes like all over. Good.

I lick in earnest now, the shaft and the head, one hand delicately fondling the heavy balls, the other exploring the place just above and behind his cock. Most of his real sex organs, his gurden, that's usually in his belly below his navel. It moves into his cock when he makes an erection, but there's a bit of it that's always just there, under the hair and skin, above the root. From the way he's reacted when I've touched there before, I think it could be the most sensitive part of all. Light touching is what's wanted there, and just a little bit of pressure from my thumb brings a moan from him, still sleeping. He likes this. I wonder again what he's dreaming about.

I take the head, with its softest skin of all, into my mouth now, and work my tongue around it, swirling, wetting it good. It's big, this cock Kourt has this morning, and this much of it fills my mouth, while his hips roll just a little bit in his sleep, pushing, urging me to take more of him into me, and he makes the most astonishing little whimpering sound.

I take a deep breath, now, close my eyes, and swallow him whole, down to the root, his balls against my chin. Gods, but this took me a little while to learn to do, with sweet patient teachers who were willing to wait until I overcame my gag reflex and learned to breath through my nose. How women do it, with their small delicate mouths, I don't know. I hold him there, still, a moment, that thick cock filling my throat so full, the workings of it throbbing there, the smell of him concentrated there in that curly hair that's pressed to my nose, oh beautiful my Kourt. Then I swallow around it, once, and I know from experience just how incredibly good that feels, the pull and squeeze of a throat around a cock, and oh to give this to my lover is such joy, and I do it again, and he makes a sound that could possibly be my name in some language somewhere.

And suddenly there's his hand in my hair, and absolutely no question at all: he's awake, he's conscious, and yes, he knows exactly what I'm doing, and I have precisely one second to panic until that hand cups the back of my head in the universal signal for "don't stop." Thank you, gods.

I swallow again, and lay my hand flat against his belly there just above that cock, just above my nose, and press that so-sensitive spot firmly and gently, and swallow one more time, and from the sound he makes then and the way his hips buck and the way his cock surges, that's all it's going to take.

I pull back a little, just so that his come doesn't all go right down my throat before I get a taste, because after all, curiosity about that taste was what got me into this position, on my knees between those legs of his, and my curiosity's well rewarded. Thick and sweet and hot going down, warm in my belly, delicious spilling over my lips, and Kourt was right. It is different. The flavor's strong, spicy, like nothing I would have guessed, so very good, and he pulls me up in his arms and I kiss him thoroughly to share it with him and show him that I like his different taste, the way I like his different body, the way I like the way he's nothing like anyone I've ever known. The look of obvious relief on his face, once he's recovered enough to express anything besides the obvious, is a fine thing to see.

He laughs when I ask him how long I have to wait before I can have some more of that.

Years from now, when Kourt's sent off on missions that outweigh protecting one person on one small world out here on the Rim, and I'm waiting, worrying, and missing him fiercely, I'll be raiding the kitchen for cloves.


End file.
